


Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand

by LaSordide



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaSordide/pseuds/LaSordide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sci-fi AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grisaille

Title: Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand  
Author: la_sordide  
Fandom: Inception  
Word count: in progress.  
Pairing: Arthur/Eames  
Rating: PG so far  
Warnings: none  
Summary: Sci-fi AU  
Notes: unbeta'd like a BOSS. 

 

Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand

1\. Grisaille

The cockpit is a study in tonalism save for the sluggishly blinking lights of the console and the occasional flicker of a distant star or nebula through the glass.

Arthur slumps in the thick gray leather of the pilot’s seat, staring at the nothingness of the universe, occasionally sipping at his coffee. He hasn’t been out of limbo for long yet, just about three Standard Hours. He’s done this enough to know he has stages of awakening after the chemical bomb and physical stasis that is hypersleep. He’s gone from the initial confusion and hysteria upon waking, through the vomiting, and on to the blankness. A sort of stupid serenity is up next. Won’t take long.

Protocol is the ship always wakes the pilot first, so – Keeshink has been up for a minimum of six Standard Hours now, and it’s starting to show. Arthur watches her silently out of the corner of his eye, angrily rooting through stowed boxes of supplies at the port side of the Piruh, her movements increasingly sharp and jagged.

“Leventhal,” she barks. Arthur makes the barest inclination of his head towards her to show he’s heard. “Leventhal, where the fuck’s the – “ And then she just as suddenly gives up on whatever it was she was looking for and sighs resignedly, joining him in wanly gaping at the blackness outside.

They all cope with waking up in their own ways.

Arthur is startled out of his hypnosis by a flash of gold and salmon. Immediately starboard of him, his regular co-pilot’s seat is abruptly jarred and filled with the ship’s precious cargo, their very reason for cruising steadily through all this murky blackness at near light speed these past five Standard Months.

The forger is the only one on the ship wearing civilian clothes, a strange assemblage of colors and textures that look utterly foreign to Arthur’s eyes because, well – the man’s the very epitome of alien, isn’t he? Even his features, the color of his hair and eyes, are almost garishly different to the muted browns and tans of the rest of the crew.

“Arthurrrrrrr,” he purrs low in greeting, his thick lips kinked to one side in a purposefully rakish grin.

Arthur feels the color spread to his cheeks with just the utterance of his name issued from that mouth. He raises a single brow and nods in acknowledgement, takes another sip of his coffee, says, “Eames” in return.

It’s not as though they’d all hung out, gotten to know one another before the Big Sleep and the five Standard Months spent under. Nevertheless, in the limited period of time the crew had spent with the forger while being briefed in their mission, Eames seemed to have taken an immediate and keen liking to Arthur. It was unbelievably disconcerting.

He sees Eames out of the corner of his right eye adjusting the delicate folds of his dark pink jacket, smoothing the fine linen of his dusky gold wide-legged pants, brushing imaginary dust off his elegant brown boots, and settling with a satisfied air into the co-pilot’s chair. There’s even an exotic smell coming off the man, something like spice and salt, so different from the usual copal and evergreen smell of the ritual purification Keeshink always gives the cockpit when they wake up.

Arthur looks at the captain standing next to him, the dark gray, skin-tight synthetic material of the uniform the crew wears making her seem like she’s part of the ship. She’s stock-still, and Arthur knows Keeshink well enough, has served on enough missions with her working as her co-pilot, her point man, to be able to read her body language. She’s on edge.

Minanz, the ship’s medic, had told Arthur before they left Gliese about the traditional Waabian reaction to forgers: with their shapeshifting, they reminded the elders of the old stories about skinwalkers. So he knows Keeshink doesn’t like the idea of having Eames on the ship, but she’s too snobbishly cosmopolitan, too consciously universal, to let the old ideas get in her way.

Also, 500,000 credits is a fuckton of money. Arthur’s reminded by this that none of them are probably the nicest people, regardless of their origins.

Eames apparently senses her unease as well. He looks over at her and gives her a gentle smile, then seems to deliberately dim himself before Arthur’s eyes, his clothing and skin and eye color all taken down a notch, a barely perceptible bit of gray added to them.

Keeshink bares her teeth at him and stalks off.


	2. Ablaq

2\. Ablaq 

They’re still travelling at phenomenally high speeds, but it feels to the crew like the Piruh is lumbering dumpily through space since they woke. It’s just a trick of the smooth sailing of the ship on its preset course, and the hypersleep drugs still working their way out of everyone’s system.

The first day of wakefulness is always rough. Even the most hardened sailors, the ones who spend virtually their entire lifetimes on a ship, their natural lives so extended by bouts of hypersleep that they would far outlive their children and their children’s children if they had any – they say even those people never totally get used to it. The crew and their passenger have all had a full night’s regular, undrugged sleep, now, and everyone’s noticeably calmer today. 

The six of them – Captain Keeshink, Arthur, Minanz the medic, mechanics Harold and Yusuf, and Eames – all sit together companionably in the mess for breakfast, chatting quietly over cups of burnt coffee and reheated MREs. Arthur looks at the faces of his crew and thinks again how relatively same they all look – black haired, olive skinned, dark eyed, willowy – compared to Eames’ multicolored thickness.

“Do you want to see a trick?” Eames asks. 

Harold and Yusuf both lean forward, eager to see what the forger can do, while Minanz and Arthur both hang back and wait to see what Keeshink says. She freezes up for a moment and then forces herself to relax, looks at Eames critically and says, “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

Eames sits back in his plastic dining chair and – Arthur can hardly explain it. It’s as though the air around him shimmers and then expands, smoothens itself out and then blends and – 

And there’s a curvy blonde in an iridescent dress sitting in front of them. Everything about her is so real, it’s startling – the vague smell of product emanating from her immaculately styled hair, nails painted a crimson that’s just slightly off the color of her lips, a tiny pimple on the crest of her bare left shoulder. 

She’s so perfectly imperfect. 

The table erupts in gasps and clapping, even the captain amazed and delighted. The blonde never takes her eyes off Arthur, a small, secret smile playing on her red mouth as she shifts and transforms again, 

this time an elderly man,

(shimmer, shift, shrink) a young boy,

(shimmer, shift, expand) a nervous looking adolescent female,

(shimmer, shift, deepen) and Arthur himself.

Arthur sits at the table for a moment, simply regarding the doppleganger across from him. Eames has dressed him in a handsome suit, the cut of which Arthur has never seen before; it’s exceptionally slim and close to the body, the color an extremely rich tobacco brown offset with a dress shirt and a silk tie that matches the dark pink of the pleated jacket the real Eames wears. Perhaps it’s something currently in vogue on Gliese? Arthur has no idea, and he feels like he suddenly pales in comparison to this sharp version of himself that Eames has put on display.

The air around the forger shimmers and waves and contracts again, and he’s back to his strange self once more. He and Arthur regard each other over the messy table, and for the first time Arthur wonders if this is, in fact, Eames’ genuine form that he sees in front of him? Clearly, a man with his powers might be able to project any form he chose.

Arthur reminds himself of Minanz’s story about skinwalkers. Given enough time to observe, it strikes him that Eames could likely imitate anyone, possibly even anything, and that it’s that very quality – deceit, really - that makes Keeshink so wary of him. 

And deceit, after all, is the reason for their mission. They are not nice people. 

The others drift away from the table to putter around the ship, leaving Arthur and Eames sitting together in the cramped, overly-bright room.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Eames says. Arthur has a vague idea of what a penny was. The saying is as amusingly antique and odd as Eames’ clothes.

“How’s your forge of the Ambassador coming?” Arthur asks. He’s mildly curious how Eames intends to put together an accurate facsimile of someone he’s never met.

Eames sits up straight, shimmers, shifts, and – “It’s coming along,” Ambassador Doral replies. She’s in full formal regalia like the handful of news images Arthur’s seen of her in the past: hair elaborately plaited into a halo about her head and festooned with baroque white pearls that cross in front of her chin, neck and body, barely concealing her naked chest; long strings of pearls hanging off her shoulders like military epaulets; and pale silk pants that are a shockingly sensual contrast to the glossy sheen of her mahogany oiled skin. 

Arthur’s momentarily struck dumb but manages to murmur, “Mr. Eames, I am impressed.” 

Doral smiles coolly back at him, her teeth pearly white and perfect. 

“How do you – how do you do that, exactly? I mean - how does it feel?” Arthur asks. He’s acutely aware of Doral’s closeness, the incredibly rich smell of amber coming off her skin in waves. Arthur certainly feels as though he’s in the presence of actual royalty.

“Usually I focus on something, some contrast, perhaps, and build from there,” the Ambassador replies. She shakes her head and Arthur sees Eames reemerge through strands of clicking pearls. 

Arthur recalls, suddenly, having seen a film as a child. Some ancient Terran animal called a cuttlefish, a kind of submarine creature that seemed to vibrate itself into different shapes and colors and textures in order to either match and blend into its environment or create such a disturbing contrast as to inspire fear in any predator. He’s almost unsurprised at the smell of salt coming off Eames now, wonders vaguely if the forger would be cool and wet to the touch?

Eames smiles brightly at him – literally, somehow – and then Arthur wonders if he can read minds, too.

He gets up from the table. “I should –“

“Of course,” Eames says gracefully, and lets him leave with nary a comment.

***

The four Standard Days spent awake on the ship before they reach the staged mediation between Ambassador Doral and the Council of Planets at the Port of Odo, Tamang, East Karsht, on the planet Paikea, are used by the crew mainly to gossip and bitch and gamble in the evenings, and by Eames to continue to perfect his forge. Arthur barely sees him.

The one time he runs into the forger is, naturally, in the ship’s shared shower on the day before they dock at Odo. They’re close enough now that they can see Paikea glimmer in the distance off the prow if they look hard enough.

Arthur reflects that, if he was fascinated by Eames’ “skin” when the forger was wearing someone else, it’s nothing compared to his interest in him when he’s naked. 

In the brief glance he gave the man as he joined Arthur in the shower, Arthur sees that Eames is covered in intricate knotwork tattoos from his shoulders to his chest, down the top half of his thick arms and all of his muscular back to his firm ass. Nearly everything above his waist that couldn’t normally be seen under formal clothing is patterned in organic black swirls, braids and spirals, that stand out in stark contrast to his pale golden skin. 

Arthur’s own people having a taboo against tattooing, he’s never seen anything like Eames so up close and personal before. Desire hits him like a ton of bricks.

Eames has kept his back carefully turned towards Arthur since he entered the shower, and Arthur can’t stand that any longer. While his mind was safely tucked away for five months, his body seems to remember it’s been starved for touch.

“Eames,” he says through the white steam of the steel room.

It’s all he has to say. Eames is on Arthur like a second skin.


	3. Chroma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author enjoys writing run-on sentences. IT'S A STYLE.

3\. Chroma 

Eames’ con runs seamlessly – a deal is sealed in secret via Ambassador Doral between Paikea and the Council of Planets for the monopoly of certain private interests on the Port of Odo, no one the wiser that the real Doral has already been dead for two Standard Hours. Eames vanishes after the papers are signed and boards the Piruh in the middle of the night, after the Ambassador is supposedly sleeping in her bed.

Keeshink maneuvers the ship through the cloudy upper layers of the Paikean atmosphere north, to another large port city called Cobb in an eastern province of a small failed state called Mal. Here they’ll keep their ears to the ground for a few days, make sure Doral’s people don’t raise a fuss. They’re banking on the knowledge that the public revelation that a) a deal essentially selling Odo to the Council of Planets brokered by b) their murdered Ambassador would result in widespread civil unrest. 

Civil unrest is bad for business.

Cobb is rather famous for its twisting, never-ending labyrinthine bazaars where one can easily get lost. And that’s the crew of the Piruh’s intention, to get lost for a little bit; at least until they’re fairly certain they’re safe and that their bodies are ready for another brush with hypersleep.

Their coffers are filled by the time they reach Mal, their employers apparently satisfied by a job well (and covertly) done. Arthur and his crew members are each 500,000 credits richer, plus an unexpected bonus. That’s enough to buy ten square kilometers of fortified arable land back on Terra, if he wanted to. Or coast for the rest of his life, just travelling here and there, if he lived carefully. 

God only knows how much Eames made off the con.

Getting out of the grift is kind of the plan right now, though. He’s physically only about 29 Standard Years old, but Arthur feels like he’s lived lifetimes asleep - and it’s starting to wear him down. Nearly everyone he’s ever known personally is either dead or a grandparent these days. The grift, he knows, is hard to break. But he’s heard she’s a harsh mistress in the end, seen some evidence of that up close.

Anyway - he’ll see how it goes. He’s got Cobb to explore right now.

****

The city is enormous, comparing favorably to giant ports on Terra like New Calgary or Delhi. The crew splits up into pairs to explore: Keeshink and Minanz, Yusuf and Harold, Arthur and Eames.

Everywhere Arthur looks, the bazaar is a riot of color with damn near anything purchasable for the right price. He wonders if maybe he couldn’t find a tailor to make him a suit of clothes like the one Eames forged him in, then decides they probably won’t be here long enough. Cobb also doesn’t look like it has the technological advances necessary to quickly 3-D print a suit, and Arthur doesn’t think he’d be able to properly describe the clothes in Common to a printer, anyway. 

He looks down at his civilian clothes, and the only word that comes to mind is ‘beige,’ even though they’re largely a respectable dark blue and white. Compared to Eames’ clothing – another affair of beautifully folded complex drapes in some handsome foreign fabric of inky black and electric blue shot through with glistening copper threads in some arcane pattern – Arthur’s clothes are worthy mainly of a mendicant, or a servant.

So he spends the day mainly just walking besides Eames, watching the forger delight in the chaos of the bazaar. Eames stops at every perfume and incense stall they happen upon, smelling tinctures and picking up strange looking roots and leaves and thrusting his nose into those. He speaks utterly pristine Common, naturally, and chats with every stall vendor about his or her wares. He leaves every single one with a look on their face like they’ll miss him, mainly after he’s gotten a positively obscene bargain out of them.

Arthur realizes that Eames has been meticulously cataloguing each of their responses for future forges as he shops and chats with them. Eames is –he’s beguiling, is the word. He’s beguiling Arthur as well.

They walk on, and Arthur watches Eames wander over to the section of the market that sells mainly textiles. He fondles every piece of cloth he can get his hands on, from silks as supple and thick as butter to synthetics as filmy as gossamer, but bulletproof. Arthur has to stifle a laugh when Eames buys twenty hands of the bulletproof stuff to take back to his tailor on Gliese.

Later, Eames enthusiastically drags Arthur over to a food stall at midday for lunch. “You will love this,” he says happily – though how he knows what Arthur would love is anyone’s guess. 

He puts a huge bowl of soup in front of Arthur. The soup is filled to the brim with noodles and vegetables and meats, and Arthur’s stomach growls audibly. He’s about to dig into it with the deep spoon and weird double-tined fork it came with when Eames stops him and says, “No – breathe it in, first.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and – it’s subtle at the beginning, the different scents the soup emits. Something like Terran ginger and lemongrass and galangal, overlaid with the sharp tang of salt and iron. There’s even something that smells almost like freshly cut cedar. It smells incredible.

“It’s called Pahr-Somlor, ‘Unity Soup.’ It’s a Mallian specialty. Lovely, isn’t it?” Eames smiles at sweetly at him from across their little table, knocks his knee gently into Arthur’s. “Take a look at the vegetables, how they’re cut into little flower shapes? These are symbols for each of the recognized genders here. And the colors of the dish – they’re the colors of the seven clans of the people of Mal. Beautiful. The cook here has the reputation for making the best Pahr-Somlor in Cobb.”

“You’ve been here before,” Arthur says, pointing his funny fork at him.

Eames just grins and ducks his head, replies, “Eat your soup.”

They find more things to look at, more stalls of this and that to explore, talking easily the whole time, and then Arthur looks up after they’ve eaten some dinner – this time some kind of slow-roasted spiced meat on a stick with a chaser of something beer-like and pungent - and realizes night has fallen on Cobb. He’d almost completely lost track of time just walking and talking and looking at things with Eames in the market. He checks the chronometer in his pocket and sees that it’s almost their appointed time to return to the ship, and feels a sharp disappointment. 

He looks over at Eames - currently engrossed in a friendly, bantering argument conducted entirely in fluent Common with the woman who is the proprietor of a book stall in the market over the merits of Mal’s recently adopted national poem, the Karkeyika, no less, his multiple purchases wrapped in butcher paper or bags completely covering his feet – and starts planning how their night will be spent once they get back aboard the Piruh.


	4. Metamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's actually sex in this one, i.e. "the good parts." 
> 
> I have never in my life written sex.
> 
> My sincere apologies.

4\. Metamer 

Yusuf’s straight as a board, so Arthur’s not terribly surprised when he finds the two mechanics smoking, drinking whiskey, shit-talking, and playing backgammon together at the mess hall table when he and Eames get back to the Piruh. If you’re not fucking, sleeping, or trying fix something, there’s really not all that much on the ship for a person to do besides smoke, drink, gossip, and gamble.

Arthur nods at the men, says, “Where’s Keeshink?”

“Taking liberties with her junior officer,” Harold replies, looking somewhere between bored and a little jealous. “I believe they’re in Minanz’s bunk, so – cheers.” He raises his glass to Arthur. 

Minanz has the bunk adjoining both Arthur’s quarters and Eames’ guest room. Something about the way the Piruh was engineered when it was built eleven Standard Years ago lends the walls, though made out of steel, a noise amplifying quality that defies explanation. Every crew member has had to put up with another’s snoring or nightmares or squealing one night stand at some point, so it’s not that big a deal. 

But, honestly, the captain isn’t exactly the quietest schtup in the cosmos. And listening to a friend knock boots all night with the ship’s scowling medic isn’t on Arthur’s list of fun shit for the evening, so. 

He rolls his eyes in frustration at the situation just as Eames enters the mess hall and stands entirely too close to Arthur for them to appear casual. Yusuf’s eyes shift between Arthur and Eames appraisingly. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and says to Harold, “Brace yourself. Gonna be a loud night,” and chuckles.

Arthur grabs Eames by the wrist and leads him down the hall in the opposite direction of the sleeping quarters, back to the showers.

****

“This is turning into a habit, darling,” Eames mouths into the skin at Arthur’s neck. The steam obscures the metal walls, and Arthur has the strange sensation of floating. It’s like he’s in the aether, with only Eames’ mouth, and arms, and hips to anchor him. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Eames grips Arthur’s ass and pins his back against the slick wall and starts thrusting into him in earnest. He’s at least as strong as he looks, his thick torso and arms mainly muscle and more than able to lift Arthur off the ground and keep him up. Arthur wraps his arms and legs around him and shuts his eyes, losing himself in the ever-present salt smell of the man, the taste of his tongue, the sounds he makes every time he pushes inside, the sweet sensation of the ride. 

He’s wrapped around Eames and close to orgasm when he blinks and looks at the man’s face, his golden skin and hair, the glaucous blue of his eyes. He’s beautiful to the point of being unnerving to Arthur, even for just a moment. 

But the forger’s so observant by nature that even that brief lapse in Arthur’s concentration is noticed. “What’s wrong?” Eames whispers in Arthur’s ear. 

“Nothing. Keep going.” 

“Arthur,” Eames says, and stops moving in him completely. “What’s up?”

Arthur swallows and meets Eames’ eyes. “Nothing. I just - is this you?” he asks, running his hands down Eames’ back, up over his shoulders. 

Eames looks at him, confused. 

“This form, this body – is this really you?”

Arthur can see when the meaning of his question fully dawns on Eames. It’s like a light goes on in his head, but – a normal one, not a forged one. It’s a bizarre distinction to make, but he recognizes the fundamental truth of it.

“Yes. This is me. The color, the shape, the sound, everything. There’s no forge on at all right now. Even the tattoos are real,” Eames says. He holds Arthur close, lays reassuring kisses on his neck, temple, cheek, the opaque steam clinging to them. “Ok?”

Arthur nods. He clenches and Eames moans. “Yeah,” he says. “Ok.”

****

The Piruh appears to have gone to bed by the time they’re done with the shower. All quiet on the intergalactic front, not even any telltale noise emanating from Minanz’s bunk, thank God.

They come to rest in Arthur’s tiny quarters, the bed barely wide enough to accommodate them both, the low ceiling suddenly claustrophobic. So they settle themselves on their sides, facing one another.

Arthur contemplates the synthetic sheet drawn up around them and frowns. It’s dull gun-metal gray like the rest of everything else in his life, made for efficiency and basic warmth and nothing else. Eames is the first person he’s ever had in his bunk that he wishes he could offer more to – something made of natural fibers and vibrant colors that gets too hot and too cold and too heavy in the middle of the night. Something with more life to it than the adequate scrap of TexLar they’re curled together under.

“Arthur Leventhal,” Eames says.

“Hmmm. Eames Arana,” Arthur replies sleepily. 

“I like you,” he says, and Arthur laughs at how strangely naked the comment is.

“Yeah. Yeah, I like you, too.”

Eames arches a brow at him hesitantly.

“Hey. I’ve an idea. Stay on Gliese with me, after all this is done. Stay for a bit.” He strokes Arthur’s black curls away from his forehead and behind his ear, and waits for a response.

Arthur’s immediately wary at how much he likes the idea. Eames’ forge is dropped, he has to remind himself. The man may be seductive by nature, but Arthur can sense that he’s not being manipulated in any special way right now. 

And Eames is – Eames. Eames is fun, he’s smart, he’s interesting, he’s a terrific lay. He’s vibrant in every facet of his personality, really, which is a rare thing. Eames is filled with life, and he apparently sees something good in Arthur, too. Arthur doesn’t really quite get that, given his drab surroundings, but. 

He’s got his fabulous payout, he’s got nothing specific lined up next, no promises to keep to anyone. So Arthur says yes.

****

Two thirds of the Piruh look spent and happy the following morning at breakfast. The other third is jocularly cranky and surly. The normally churlish Minanz, it turns out, had the forethought to invest in something bacon-like and delicious from the bazaar yesterday, and he fries it up for the entire crew while happily humming to himself.

The conversation around the table turns to what everyone is up to next: Minanz is going back to Terra for the Autumn hunting season in his home territory; Harold is considering setting up a body shop somewhere, maybe on a legit military contract; Yusuf hasn’t been in the business long and still has people he wants to see back in Mombasa; Keeshink thinks she’ll kick around the universe for a little, see some things she’s always wanted to see. 

Everyone turns their attention to Arthur then. He smiles sheepishly, glances at Keeshink and admits, “Looks like you can drop us both off at Gliese.”

The entire table instantly erupts into catcalls and teasing.

****

Four more Standard Days pass docked in Cobb, at which point the entire crew has a wild hair up its ass. It’s been lovely mainly for Arthur Eames, the days spent relaxing in one another’s company between rounds of excellent sex, but – it’s time to get a move on.

They each take a last shower and then start their regimens of slow release nutrients, help fit IV drips of fluid into each other’s wrist cannulas. Everyone’s dressed in their identical gray TexLar one-size-fits-all jammies, ready for the Big Sleep slumber party. 

Eames gives Arthur one last kiss before they both drop into their coffin-like hypersleep beds. “I wish I could dream about you the next five months,” he says. 

Arthur can feel the blush creep up into his cheeks and quietly replies, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Keeshink makes sure they’re all safely tucked into their chambers, sets the timer on the kick so it wakes her first, and then pushes the plunger on the machine that delivers the murky black rush of Somnacin into everyone’s veins at the same time. 

Oblivion overtakes Arthur’s consciousness, the last thought he registers being the feel of Eames’ skin on his own.


	5. Synesthesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, I will write fic that doesn't have a beach in it. Today is not that day.

5\. Synesthesia 

Seven Standard Months later, Arthur drowses under a small thatched hut on the shore of a hidden-away beach called Na Burit Dua in the vacation port of Gilinuss, Pentang-janoa, Gliese. The sands are a glassy light purple due to the high concentration of manganese in the soil here. The water is a beautifully harmonious shade of violet at the shore that bleeds into indigo further out. The sky is cloudless. There’s a hedge of bushes to Arthur’s right that’s in bloom with huge, complex and extremely fragrant flowers in a riot of scarlet and tangerine; he needs to ask Eames what they’re called at some point. 

He’s naked, as is customary for people from the Pentang peninsula when at the ocean, laying on his back on a lightly padded bed in the shade. He’s been here two Standard Months already and is still not used to the public nudity at the beach, how no one stares or giggles. 

Well. When in Rome and all.

Today, though, he’s alone. There’s no one else around save for a fruit seller maybe 300 meters away from where he lays. Arthur can see her consider whether or not to try to ply her wares on him, then decide he’s not worth it. She turns and the sun glints off her gold hair and her uncovered oiled skin as she trudges away from him to the more populated parts of the beach.

This is Eames’ hometown. Not exactly where he grew up, but where he’s most comfortable. Arthur digs his tanned feet into the soft lilac sand and breathes the salt air deeply. 

He can hear Eames’ footfalls come down the stone steps from the house. Eames sits down on the lounge next to Arthur and deposits some iced fruity concoction in a glass on the table next to him.

“You haven’t tired of this?” Eames asks. Arthur thinks he knows the silent corollary to that question – you haven’t tired of me? “There’s not exactly the level of adventure you’re used to here in Gilinuss.”

“Eames, no,” Arthur motions to the sun and the beach, the relentless pull of the tide, the spray of the salt water. “How could I get tired of this?” He kneads Eames’ hip, strokes the back of his shoulder, massages his scalp for a moment. “This is – this is incredible. I mean, it’s nothing like where I’m from, you know?”

Eames nods.

“You’ve never been to Terra, though, but – it’s kind of an outpost. Most of it’s just been fucked with for so long that it may never recover, really. Most of it’s pretty gray.”

“There’s a reason your people leave it,” Eames says in understanding.

“Yeah. It’s sad. The far north is still really beautiful, very lush and green, but – most of it’s just really sad.” Arthur shrugs. “I still miss it sometimes, but, no – I’m definitely not tired of being here.” Arthur pauses, figures he may as well bite the bullet and says, “And I’m not going to get tired of being with you.”

Eames stretches out next to Arthur on the lounge and kisses him deeply in response. That’s absolutely taboo in Gilinuss in public, but – they’re alone. And it’s so sweet.

“We should take this inside,” Arthur says, pointedly glancing at Eames’ big erection poking him in the hip insistently. 

“Nah,” Eames says. “I’ll be good. I kind of wanted to watch the sunset with you, anyway. Maybe wait for the stars to come out.”

“Yeah? That’s great, cause - I think this beach is the only vantage point I’m gonna be interested in seeing the stars from anytime soon,” Arthur tells him.


End file.
